


take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Best Friends, Clarke's yearning for sure, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pining, doctor!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29909088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke finally realizes in exactly what way she loves Bellamy. She just runs into a little trouble trying to convincehim.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 20
Kudos: 154
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siyahi123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyahi123/gifts).



> this is written for The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative based on a prompt from sal (@siyahi123) that i will not further specify because of *** SPOILERS *** !!!!

Ten years ago Clarke never thought she’d be a family doctor. Dynamic and high profile and life-changing emergency surgery like her mom had perfected over the years, that was where it was at. That was the dream.

Now, her dad and childhood best friend are dead, she no longer speaks to her mom and most of her days are spent looking at weirdly shaped birthmarks. That’s reality. Once upon a time she thought she’d be miserable doing a job like this, figured she’d need to chase adrenaline high after adrenaline high to feel something, the cutting edge competition between other residents and surgeons to challenge and excite her, and the constant touch-and-go line between life and death to keep her inspired and busy. 

Nowadays, she has come to appreciate how she can help people in small doses; make their lives sufficiently better by just offering a listening ear, earn hugs of gratitude at diagnosing diseases at an early stage, to be a familiar face that brings comfort during the last moments of someone’s life. The most magical part is getting to meet babies hours after they’re born and see them grow up in front of her very own eyes, realizing she’s probably going to know them — _really_ know them — for the rest of their lives. 

Of course, not all of it’s _fun_. There’s the hypochondriacs, and the infected toes, the firm Dr. Google enthusiasts and the bodily fluids coming from places they should not be allowed to come from, but every job has it’s pros and cons. She mostly gets to manage her own hours, she has most weekends and holidays off, and every day is surprisingly different.

Today is one of those days she appreciates just a little bit harder than other days.

Vera Kane has been a type two diabetic for the past two years, becoming a regularly visiting patient at the practice around the same time Clarke had just finished her residency. She was one of her first supervision-less patients, taking over her case from Dr. Cartwig when she moved away. For this particular appointment, one of the very last squeezed in on a Friday, Mrs. Kane has brought her husband with her. 

“I’m sorry. He likes to fuss over me for no reason,” Mrs. Kane gushes apologetically, waving away her husband as he helps her sit down on the chair across from Clarke’s desk, despite his own difficulty standing. There’s a fond look of exasperation on her face as she narrows her eyes at him.

Mr. Kane doesn’t flinch or budge, keeping his hand firmly clasped over her arm until she’s lowered into her seat, clutching his cane with his other hand. “The ‘no reason’ is that you’ve fainted twice this past week, honey.”

“Oh, you know the weather’s changing. Always has taken my body a while to adjust,” she brushes off his concerns, sending Clarke another apologetic glance, like she’s embarrassed to have her problems unloaded on a practical stranger like this. 

It so happens to be her literal job, so she doesn’t mind. She bites back a smile, sitting down on her own chair as she watches Mr. Kane mutter something to his wife under his breath. Vera swats his hand away from her arm, whispering something back before straightening in her chair. Clarke eyes gleam with amusement. “How long have you two been married?”

“Going on almost forty-three years now,” Mr. Kane says, mock-solemnly. “Might make our forty-fifth anniversary if this one doesn’t keep trying to slip out on me.”

“It was a simple fainting spell, _Dick_ ,” Vera presses, pointedly, obviously not as concerned as her husband. Clarke glances down at the file in front of her to confirm Mr. Kane’s name is in fact Richard before choking on her own spit and embarrassing herself. “I’m not planning any great escapes here.”

“You better not. Mrs. Desai from 3B will jump at the opportunity to bring me over some of those damn casseroles of hers,” he grumbles, adjusting the ivy cap on his head, wedding ring glinting underneath the bright overhead fluorescent lights. “You know I can’t stand that woman’s cooking.”

Mrs. Kane deflates a little, reaching over to clasp his hand with hers. For a second, Clarke doesn’t even hear whatever they’re saying, and instead just watches them with a faint smile, her mind wandering. The sight of them affectionately arguing warms her entire body with something soft and fond, in the strangest of ways reminding her of her best friend. Not like _that,_ but well, like _that._

Maybe like _that?_

Bellamy wouldn’t call her honey, but he’d definitely have no qualms about calling her a dick. He’s the one who always makes sure she’s taken care of, because, despite the fact she’s a literal doctor, she’s the worst at taking care of herself. He gets overprotective all the time, and bugs her for no good reason, and the one person who unfortunately knows her better than herself. 

If she's honest with herself, she's way past things clicking into place. That happened a long time ago. She's just never allowed herself to accept it.

Clarke swallows hard, hoping to dispel some of the sudden dryness in her throat, Mrs. Kane’s sweet smile drawing her attention back to the present. “We’re wasting the poor doctor’s time.”

“That’s alright,” she starts, scraping her throat as her eyes flick between the two of them, collecting herself. The corners of her mouth curve up into what she hopes is a convincing, polite smile. “I want to start with you telling me a bit about the fainting spells.”

She sends Vera off with a new insulin prescription, a follow-up appointment in two weeks and a fasting blood sugar check-up with their nurse practitioner before closing up the practice and heading home. _Home._ A lousy two-bedroom apartment they could’ve upgraded years ago if it wasn’t for the fact it’s right by their favorite park. Home. That she shares with Bellamy.

They met in college, reluctantly turned their unprovoked antagonism into something much more amicable, and once she moved out of the dorms and started med school while he was looking for a roommate, it felt like the decision was already made. It just made sense. Everything always made sense with the two of them.

Years ago, Bellamy, hair sleep-mussed and just in an old threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants, asked her out on a date over a pot of early morning coffee, like the thought had just occurred to him while she was rubbing the sleep from her eyes and biting her lip while she thumbed through her phone, mentally preparing herself to get ready for work. They hadn’t been there before, but they had definitely been growing towards it, on the precipice of something, tethering close to something more than hugs lasting a second too long and being the first person they wanted to tell news too, good or bad, especially the bad news, and it wasn’t so much ignorance on her part as it had been cowardice. Lexa broke her heart three months prior over some dumb selfless non-profit job across the country, her mom wasn’t talking to her after her fourth failed attempt at rehab, and she’d just decided to stop pursuing surgery as a specialisation — all she truly had left was him. Her best friend, but something more than too. The most important person to her in the world, who made everything feel a little less heavy, who always knew how to make her laugh even if she was crying her eyes out, who she unconditionally trusted beyond all rationality in the same way he trusted her, her partner. It seemed silly and reckless to risk that over something as stupid as romantic feelings to her at the time. Romance could come and go, and they would as her previous experiences had shown her, but what they had, the two of them, what she _felt_ about him — that would last forever. She knew that. She didn’t know if they would work out. Clarke stopped taking risks with those kinds of odds a long time ago. 

He saw it on her face before she even straightened out her thoughts and was able to put them into words. There was a flash, just a second of devastation and pain that etched it’s way deep into her heart, and then it was gone, and there was just — _understanding_. He always understood her, fingers curling around her shoulder, brown eyes dipping down to the slight tremble in her bottom lip.

She didn’t want to hurt him. She never wanted to hurt him. Not by rejecting him, not by leading him on. It felt like everything was about to change no matter what she was to tell him, like it was an impossible choice that either way would end whatever connection they had before. Yet he took all of those burdens away with a single squeeze of his fingers, drawing her attention back to his face. “Hey. It’s okay.” Bellamy smiled at her, reluctant, but so very him, so very familiar, and instantly she could breathe again, knowing that everything was still the same. “It’s okay,” he’d echoed, brown eyes sympathetic because he _knew_ her. He knew that whenever her fight or flight response got activated, she’d always go for the latter, if only her mind was able to work long enough to muster together an escape plan. So he beat her to it, coming up with an exit strategy of his own. “We don’t have to mention it again, okay?”

It was just the past then, something they never brought up again, or even so much as alluded to. There was no lingering resentment, or sudden awkwardness. It made it easier for Clarke. She’d always been a pro at compartmentalizing, and being allowed to completely ignore that part of her that felt something for him in _that_ way took a lot of the difficulties usually coming along with it away.

Still, the paralyzing thought that he might change his mind and resent her for it after all didn’t stop tormenting her for a few months. Then he got a girlfriend, Gina, who Clarke really liked, and she started seeing a few people here and there, nothing ever lasting for more than a couple of weeks, and she knew then, that he made her a promise that night, and he would never break it. 

He moved on, and Gina didn’t stick around forever, but Clarke pushed the idea of him being someone like _that_ to her, ever, in any sort of capacity, to the back of her mind, locking it up in a box in a far, dusty corner to never bring it out to the daylight again. 

She genuinely even forgot. That he could be _more_ than her best friend. She already had all of the parts of him that mattered. His early morning grumbles, his post-dinner evening cuddles, his stupid jokes and bedhead hair and groans of frustration while he was bent over his student’s papers, and late night thoughts when neither of them can sleep. 

Until today. 

Today, she has made the striking realisation that she doesn’t have _all_ the parts of him that matter. That someday he’s going to meet some pretty girl who is nice and funny and probably wants lots of children, and he’s going to move out and marry her, and she’ll be alone. She’s good at being alone. Being alone is not what frightens her, it’s the being without him. Having to watch him with someone else. Having to schedule her own dentist appointments and set reminders to eat her lunch on her phone. Having to take up a hobby like kickboxing or journaling, instead of being able to take out her stress-related frustrations on the way he let the dishes pile up or is incapable of giving her space. Having to call or text him instead of just being able to pad across the apartment to find him instead.

Because when she thinks of herself in thirty, forty years, sitting across from some doctor getting secretly annoyed with her type A personality and outdated medical knowledge, when she thinks of looking over to the chair next to her, of reaching over to clasp a hand with hers — it’s him she imagines. She wants _that_ part of him, too. 

Suddenly it’s not enough to curl up at his side on the couch, she wants to crawl into bed next to him every night, and hold his hand while they do grocery shopping, and stop averting her eyes whenever he leaves the shower with water still dripping down his chest, and retire her vibrator forever, and hear him call her stupid nicknames like ‘ _sweetheart_ ’ and ‘ _baby_ ’ so she can roll her eyes at him, and she wants to get a dog with him, and accompany him to his holiday mixers as his girlfriend, and make-out with him for hours like they’re teenagers making up for lost time. Mr. and Mrs. Kane kicked that fucking box — the Romantic Bellamy box — out into the bright, harsh light of the day, and now all these longing, yearning, desperate feelings and urges that were deeply burried and hidden away for the better part of a decade are clawing their way out, terrorizing every cell of her being. 

When she gets home, of course the couch is all she gets. Half of her is paranoid he’ll immediately notice something’s changed, but he’s lined up a new episode of Nailed It!, and hands her a homemade pokébowl, and then she’s cuddled into his side like any other time, listening to him tell her about his day. She only half listens, distracted coming up with a way to reveal this new — _old_ new — information to him in a way that won’t make him want her to get a psychological evaluation.

“I love you,” she blurts out suddenly, when he’s halfway through a story about catching one of his students cheating on a test, because it all just seems so stupid all of a sudden — holding it back. Death touches her every day, in some way, shape or form. Not in an urgent, pressing, fleeting way like it would’ve had she gone into trauma surgery, but it’s in the weary smile of a mother with incurable stage four breast cancer, the empty look in a desperate young man’s eyes sitting across from her silently pleading for help, a call in the early morning hours from an upset girl needing her to confirm the passing away of her grandpa. Sometimes it’s beautiful, the last notes of someone’s life, surrounded by loved ones, or on their own terms, fulfillment and acceptance. Sometimes it’s ugly, taken unexpectedly or too soon, alone or paralyzed by pain, angry tears of frustration for Gods that aren’t watching or soft, pleading bargains behind backs that she’s morally unable to listen to. 

It’s the latter that worries her. Worries her more than looking stupid, or weak, more than taking a risk. There’s a timer, somewhere in the universe, counting down the seconds she has with him, and she won’t know they’ve ran out of moments until they have. If there’s one thing she won’t be able to forgive herself for, it’s wasting any of it on baseless insecurities and haunting hypotheticals. 

So what if it doesn’t work out? If he’s proven anything, always without any judgement or hard feelings, it’s that he won’t ever leave her side. She has faith in _that_. In him, always.

Bellamy snorts, weirdly glancing over at her from the corner of his eyes, patting the top of one of the knees drawn up to her chest supportively. “I love you too,” he acknowledges casually, probably figuring she’s in one of her weird moods. Sometimes, right before her period, she gets overly sentimental. Not like this though. The last time she told him she loved him was probably on a birthday card.

“No,” Clarke corrects him, her cheeks heated as she pushes herself more upright on his thigh, her hands trembling and her shaking voice raspy and her throbbing pulse a fast gallop in her neck. Her entire universe is spinning, out of control, out of her hands, under her feet, and Bellamy doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Some stupid part of her thought he would just _get_ it — that from one moment to another, after all these years, everything’s changed for her. “I _love_ you.”

It still doesn’t dawn on him, the idiot. Instead of fondness, it’s heartbreak she feels because it’s her fault, her doing. “I know,” he says slowly as if repeating himself to a toddler, obviously amused as he turns his head to look at her fully. He playfully pinches the tip of her nose between his thumb and forefinger briefly. “I love you too.”

Clarke stares at him for a beat longer as he returns to the television, her nose still scrunched up. She guesses expecting him to just intrinsically _know_ she changed her mind after years, after half a dozen boy- and girlfriends, after insurmountable amounts of platonic affirmations, like he has some sort of sixth sense, like he can read her mind, like it could just be that easy, isn’t exactly fair. If he doesn’t want to — _can’t_ recognize it, she’ll have to show him, make him believe.

She’s not really much of a big gesture kind of person. That’s more his thing. If _‘who would stand outside the other’s window with a boombox_ ’ was a regularly posed question, the answer would definitely be him. 

So, she starts off easy. The next day is Saturday, which they both have off, so she makes him breakfast. Nothing too fancy — she’s still a doctor that never learned to develop any motor skills beyond suturing neatly and making nail bed excisions — but definitely more than her usual bowl of breakfast cereal if he’s running late for work or on the very cusp of dying from a cold. She sets her alarm early, another thing she never does, and cuts up a bunch of fruit, puts half a dozen of pre-packaged croissants in their airfryer, and makes his coffee just the way he likes it; black with a splash of cinnamon. 

The steaming mug is cooling down on the counter beside his plate when she hears him start to rumble around in his room, probably getting ready for his usual morning run. Bellamy pads into the kitchen on his socks a few minutes later, wearing running shorts and a tank-top, coming to a sudden halt when he sees the state of their kitchen.

He does a double-take, scratching his head. “Did I forget my own birthday?”

“No,” she corrects him, the tips of her ears turning red as she looks up from the newspaper spread out in front of her on the counter. “I just wanted to do something nice.”

“Why?” Bellamy prompts, suspicious.

“ _Because_ ,” she presses, even if it’s childish. No use to confessing again, considering it didn’t work the first time. Or the second time. He’s going to have to _feel_ it first.

His eyes narrow even more, but he doesn’t push it, warily sitting down at the kitchen table to take a small sip of his coffee as soon as she places it down in front of him, watching him expectantly.

“Stop drinking it like you might be able to taste the arsenic.” She rolls her eyes at his dramatics, tightening her ponytail. “If I wanted to poison you, I’d have much easier ways that are way less likely to show up in your bloodstream.”

“Don’t I believe it,” he murmurs, grumpy and stubborn, then stuffs a piece of fruit into his mouth. 

“I’m going to do laundry,” Clarke announces then, causing him to choke on a strawberry, which she knows is going to earn her even more complaints. She _hates_ doing laundry. When they first moved in, it was unanimously decided he would do laundry as long as she vacuumed every week. Clarke has long gotten over the shame of having to watch Bellamy fold her underwear while getting heated over some historical show, cursing at the tv, from her old unsexy period panties to her more sheer lacey lingerie. There’s a casual comfort between them that surpasses all rational causes for humiliation. 

Bellamy’s warm fingers fold around her wrist, keeping her in place when she starts for their laundry room. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest, but she doesn’t dare move, paralyzed under his pensive gaze. Maybe he finally figured it out. He sits up enough so he can press the back of his hand to her forehead, her eyes flicking up to the ceiling as soon as she realizes he’s checking her temperature. She swats him away. “Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not being an ass. I’m just confused,” he protests, offended, rucking a hand through his hair frustratedly. “Do you need something from me? I already told you I’d drive you to the airport next—”

“Stop,” she grits out, seething. How is his first instinct to jump towards the unlikely explanation that she wouldn’t just outright ask him for something she needs, instead of the fact she might be into him. Like someone couldn’t possibly just be grateful for him, instead of wanting something from him. She wonders who hurt him like this, but the answer will probably come back full circle. Or to his family, and she’d rather not go there right now considering it’ll piss her off for the rest of the day. “There is no ulterior motive, okay?” Desperation is laced with her voice, “I am just being a good friend.”

She inwardly cringes at her choice of words, because reminding him of the sorry platonic state of their relationship should’ve been the last thing she did, but at least it seems to satisfy him for the moment, dipping one of the croissants into a generous blob of jam slathered on the side of his plate. 

Still trying to think of a less subtle way to come on to him, to convince him he’s worth all of this trouble and more, he announces he’s going on his run, kissing her forehead in thanks while she’s on the couch sorting through their whites. She decides not to ogle him when he walks out of the bathroom freshly showered afterwards, later doing some reading while he grades, half-distracted with glancing over at their door every other minute, just to make sure she’s the one answering it when their intercom finally goes off. She still hasn’t gotten beyond ‘ _kissing him on the mouth mid-sentence_ ’, and that might not go over well. She owes him an explanation, not another guilt complex.

Clarke’s bought him lunch from his favorite Vietnamnese place, because her knowledge of romantic gestures is mostly just food. Food is always good. He’s definitely looking at her with judgement as he unpacks enough plastic containers to last them the next two days, but doesn’t have enough time to interrogate her, because the doorbell rings again, three minutes later, and it’s his sister. 

Octavia hugs him, phone pressed to her ear and then goes straight over to their cabinet to find herself a plate. He looks kind of content for a moment, and then it dims, his eyes flashing over to hers apologetically like it’s his fault his sister never cared enough to learn any manners when he tried to teach them to her. However, when Clarke doesn’t immediately slink off to her room to lock herself inside and entertain herself until Octavia leaves — her usual MO — and _instead_ digs her fork back into her noodles and relaxes into her seat, his eyes widen slightly, surprised disbelief all over his features. “You’re staying?”

Clarke scrapes her throat, glancing over at an unassuming Octavia, who’s on the phone with her boyfriend, simultaneously scooping some steamed veggies onto her plate. He’s been trying to get them in the same room for longer than half an hour for years now, even though their personalities definitely clash, in that way where Clarke thinks Octavia is a selfish bitch and Octavia thinks Clarke should mind her own fucking entitled business. The corner of her mouth curves up in her attempt at a comforting grin as she presses, “I’m staying.”

His whole face lights up in a way she rarely gets to see, knowing she can stomach an afternoon of his sister if it makes him this happy. She’ll just count to ten a lot. His expression mellows out a little as they eat, but the smile stays, even when there’s a small disagreement on Asian cuisine, even when Octavia eats the last eggroll without asking, and even when his sister makes up some flimsy excuse about a gym appointment that they all know is code for meeting up with people more interesting than them right the second after they’ve polished off their plates, abruptly leaving.

Since Clarke doesn’t have the slightest clue about the qualifications of these so-called grand gestures, she tends to go a bit overboard. She’s been staring at the pictures a lot, and he has more love to give than is good for him, so it just makes sense. Around four, Monty arrives just in time to deliver the kitten she adopted from the local shelter, wrapped in a warm, apple-green blanket. It’s actually perfect timing, because Bellamy’s in the bathroom, so she takes the small animal from her friend, and ignores Monty’s judgemental gaze without Bellamy being a witness to it. She can imagine the exact way his watchful brown eyes would probably try to figure her out. 

One of his eyebrows is arched. “A cat, Clarke?” His lips purse like there’s a bitter taste in his mouth. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell him you’re in love with him?”

“Shut up,” she shushes him, embarrassed, shoving him back so she can close the door. She knows Monty means well, and she might be ready to be more vulnerable with Bellamy, but that doesn’t mean it’s open season on her inner feelings for just anyone. The thought alone sends an uncomfortable chill up her spine. “He’s coming back.”

Monty snorts dryly. “Good luck—” She slams it shut, taking a deep breath before turning around on her heels.

“Was that M—” Bellamy is suddenly stunned into silence, eyes drawn to the little baby cat cradled in her arms. She’s very sweet, the tiny thing curiously peeking up at them with grayish blue eyes from the top of the blanket as she softly mewls. “Is that a kitten?”

“It is,” she confesses, her chest tightening at the look of awe on his face, lifting the feline a little higher up on her chest, biting her lip as she scratches it between her eyes, earning her a quiet pur. “She’s yours.”

“It’s mine,” he echoes, dumbfounded, still staring at the kitten like he’s never gotten a gift before in his life.

She tucks back the blanket enough so she can scoop up the animal, encouragingly thrusting it out at him with both hands, fabric pinned to her chest with her bicep. “Uh-huh.”

Her heart nearly breaks from the careful way he takes her into his arms, tucking her into the crease of his elbow as he peers down at her with wonder. “You got her for me?”

“For you,” Clarke reinforces, then hesitates, watching him gingerly pet the cat’s tiny head for a moment. His hand is almost as big as her entire body, so he’s just using two fingers, the little thing eagerly budding her nose into his palm for more. “But I thought we could adopt it together.” She drags her eyes back up to his face. There’s another one of those strange looks in his eyes, and she can’t believe he’s still not picking up on the damn hint. “She would be yours. And mine.”

He pecks the cat’s forehead, right between her eyes, smiling faintly as she claws at his jaw. He can’t tear his eyes off her. “Like our first pet as roommates?”

Seriously? “Kind of.”

“Okay,” he says, _agrees_ , obviously distracted, getting down on the floor so he can put the kitten down in between his legs, playing with her. Clarke tries to figure out where she went wrong, when he doesn’t seem to notice that her suggestion to adopt an animal together wasn’t anything more than a glorified pick-up line, but it's mostly futile. Either she's gotten rusty, or Bellamy's too clueless for his own good. For her fucking sanity.

They skip dinner because they’re too full from their late lunch and completely obsessed with their new pet. Clarke had this whole trip to his favorite museum planned out, but that was before she’d considered the fact Bellamy obviously wasn’t going to leave the kitten alone for the rest of the night. They put up a documentary for background noise as he tires the adorable little feline out with a ball of his mom’s old knitting yarn, and halfway through, Clarke disappears into her bedroom to work on Plan B. 

If these nice gestures weren’t making it clear enough, she had other _nice_ things for him to look at instead. If all fails, there’s always her body, like a final fail-safe. She might be bad at expressing her feelings, but she’s a pro at picking people up. Clarke slips into a fiery red set of lingerie that she hasn’t used on anyone else before and is nearly entirely see-through, tying her dark robe around her waist before stepping back outside into the living room. A nervous little thrill runs through her system as she waits for him to look up from the tv, her heartbeat rattling quickly in her chest. This is kind of it. This is Plan B through Z. She has nothing else to give.

Nefeli is asleep in front of the fireplace inside an old cardboard box from the new toaster they got last month. He named her after a cloud, because of her fuzzy white fur that makes her look like an adorable little ball, and obviously is head over heels in love with her already, sprawled out on the carpet right beside the box, leaning back onto his palms. 

She made a mistake, she realizes, buying that damn kitten. She might not compare.

“What’s up?” He asks, eyes lingering on her bare legs for only a second before he drags them up to her face, his throat working. Her blood rushes to her face, an anticipatory tension swelling low in her belly.

Clarke toys with the tie around her waist before pulling on it, and figuring actions speak louder than words, drags the fabric down her shoulders to reveal a vast expanse of pale, creamy skin. It’s obvious he doesn’t know where to look — his eyes first widening, gaping at her before he averts his gaze, swallowing and then closing his mouth, glancing back at her darkened eyes before his jaw drops again. “Uhm—” he starts, stammering, sounding kind of strained. “Clarke?”

“It’s okay,” she promises, ignoring the little shake in her voice and braving through it. Her entire body tingles, exposed to the night air, much crispier than before when she was fully dressed, and she feels like an exposed nerve. She can’t take any of it back now. “I’ve been trying to find the right words to explain what I’ve wanted to tell you all day, but this will have to do.”

“What is happening?” Bellamy roughs, shaking his head lightly as he averts his eyes to the side, and for the very first time it dawns on her he might not want this. Might not want _her._ Maybe he moved on, left her in the past along with her blink-and-you-miss-it rejection. Shame overcomes her, heat flushing her skin and a lump foring in her throat. It’s been _years_. What was she thinking?

Humiliation pricks at the back of her eyes, tightly hugging her arms to her chest. If she sounds raw, it’s ‘cause she feels like it, “God, I’m trying to tell you I love you, but you don’t want to hear it.”

His jaw clenches, then unclenches, fingers curling into fists where they rest on either side of his knees, pulled up to his chest. He doesn’t look at her. “You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t know what’s going on with you, what’s been going on all day, but I _know_ even though I’m important to you, you don’t feel that way about me—”

“Stop,” she croaks out, feeling pained tears well up in her eyes as she reaches for her robe, shrugging it back on quickly. Did she ruin this before it even started? _Look at me,_ she silently pleads.

“Listen, Clarke. I — I let you go. I made peace with it.” He’s shaking his head again, imperceptible almost, gaze firmly fixed on the burgundy of their carpet. “This just hurts even more, okay?” Bellamy’s wet eyes flick up then, meeting hers, and he’s looking at her like she’s cruel, like she’s taunting him with something he can’t have, like he actually thinks this is all just a game to her.

She only stands there, lips pressed together in a tight line as tense silence envelops them. 

He can’t take it anymore after a moment, his need to know driving him as insane as he’s driving her. “Is it just because you’re lonely and I’m available? I know it’s been a while since you hooked up with anyone, and that's fine, but if you feel confused, we can talk about—”

It should probably piss her off more, about these assumptions, about the tone to his voice, about the way he degrades him own importance, but instead she feels heartbroken. She wants to shake him. Make him see. It was always her that had something wrong with her, her who had something to fix. It wasn’t about _him_. It never was.

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it. The seconds drag another for another moment. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing, but I’m not confused, or settling for anything, I’m not — I’m not _lonely._ ” She takes a step to the side, sinking down on the couch slowly, fingers digging into the edge of the couch cushion. One deep breath, a tear dripping down the tip of her nose, and then she’s explaining, “There was this couple at the practice today.”

He considers her, expectant, curious. And Clarke shrugs, continuing, “Married for a billion years but still looking at each other like it was the first time they were seeing each other. Even while arguing.” She lets out a wobbly, watery laugh at the memory, at this stupid fantasy she had watching them, before sniffing, wiping at her chin with the heel of her hand. Her blue eyes flick back over to his, and she’s so incredibly sorry for being the reason they missed all of these windows, that it might be too late now. “I realized I wanted that to be us.” Her throat hurts, voice barely a whisper now. “Me and you.”

“Clarke — I don’t.. I don’t understand,” he presses, brows pinching together. One of his hands scrubs over his mouth, before pressing both palms together, resting them over his lips briefly, and from the wild look on his face she can tell his mind is racing, at war with whatever it is he’s feeling. “When I asked you—”

She shakes her head, feeling so incredibly useless. “I wasn’t ready then. I was a coward,” she admits, bitterly, all the strength back to her voice. “And I’ve been holding myself, holding _us_ back all this time based on the assumption that I might lose you in the end, but over the last few years—” She takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve realized that nightmares are as real as dreams. The odds that they’ll become true are as big as the odds they won’t.” Clarke braves a smile, even if it falters. “This, me and you, this is reality.” 

Eyes take in her face searchingly, looking for something, she’s not even sure what. He’s quiet for what only can be a few seconds, but feels like an eternity, a desperate pressing quality to his voice when he says, “I need you to be very specific.”

Her mouth opens, breath hitching as her eyes soften on him. “Reality is that I’m in love with you, Bell.” She swallows, hard, making sure to sound as steady as possible when she echoes, “I’m in love with you.”

It lingers in the space between them for a moment, both of them holding their breath. Perhaps waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the ground to open up beneath their feet and swallow them whole, maybe a tidal wave, taking them and everyone else in a thirty mile radius out. 

He breaks the silence first, because he always does, too impatient. “So everything you did today, that was you trying to tell me you loved me?” Bellamy still sounds a bit increduled, like he’s not buying it just yet.

“Yeah,” she breathes, casual, lifting one of her shoulders in a shrug. She’s reluctantly hoping that all of this means he doesn’t hate her now, that there might even be the off-chance he actually returns those very same feelings. “I don’t know how to be romantic, that’s your thing.” Her mouth quirks up in half a smile, that’s mostly self-deprecatory, and the taste of salt explodes on her tongue. “So instead of seducing you, I’ve convinced you I’m on a mental health spiral.”

He licks his lips, turning his torso around and scooting closer to the edge of the couch. His eyes are dark, tendons in his hands straining. “I was definitely seduced, if it helps.” There’s the tentative beginning of a teasing smile. “I’ve just become an expert at ignoring those feelings when I’m around you.” He lets out a short huff of laughter. “Kind of second nature at this point.”

“I’m _begging_ you to stop,” Clarke practically whines, then deflates a tiny bit at the look on his face, mostly the memory of an entirely different look on his face all those years ago. “I—I know I hurt you, when you asked and I — well.” She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts, bottom lip drawn between her teeth. “I got good at ignoring it too, you know?” She smiles, although it’s shakey, covering his hand with hers as his fingers come up over her knee in a supportive gesture. “Convincing myself that whatever I felt for you romantically could never compare to what I feel about you as a person, as my best friend in the entire world.”

“Clarke,” he brushes her off, obviously embarrassed as he avoids eye-contact, pressing his palms into the couch cushion to lift himself up onto the couch with one smooth hoist. He settles in beside her, their old couch creaking beneath him, keeping his space. 

She reaches over to grasp his hand again, tightly, turning sideways so she can look at him better. She’s not done, goddamnit. “And it doesn’t. It doesn’t compare. It never will, because you — you’re amazing, Bell.” Clarke’s smiling now, really smiling, because she’s never been convinced more of anything else in her life. “You’re the only person I can always count on. You’ll always be my favorite.” She lets out a little groan despite herself, glancing down at his lips, a desperate laugh at her own expanse spilling from her lips. “But _God_ , I wanna kiss you. I want to be close to you all the time. I want _you_.”

He surges forward to press his mouth against hers, and she practically melts into him, fingers threading with his where he’s holding her cheek. Clarke eagerly opens up for him, ignoring the burning need in her lungs for fresh oxygen, the way his nose bumps into hers as they try to figure out the angle that gets them as close as humanly possible. He swallows every little sound she makes, fingers grazing along the generous curve of her hip, the intensity of it all almost too much.

“Fuck,” he curses, eyes bright, panting harshly, forehead pressed against hers. “I love you too, I love you so much.” She just moans into his mouth in response as he nips at her bottom lip, pulling it between his, a jolt of pleasure shooting through her, fingers from her other hand tightening into his hair to tug him closer. She longs to lean over, straddle him, press flush against him.

Nefeli suddenly protests the lack of attention, probably just awoken from her nap by their noises. It’s more a squeak than a real meow, but then Clarke’s laughing into his mouth, thumb caressing his cheekbone, pulling back enough so she can look at him. She’s not sure how to tell him, about this immense gratitude she has for him, for who he is and what he means to her, this deep longing and profound understanding always giving and taking, an unconditional acceptance she’s never found with anyone else, wouldn’t even know how to begin to put it into words. He talks first, breath hot on her face. “You were wrong. You are pretty romantic.” His smirk widens, still as uncharming and smug as she’s always found it. It brings her comfort to know she’ll still want to punch him in the face sometimes. “Nefeli is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” 

Her eyes gleam mischievously, toying with the top button of his henley, hitching her thigh over his hip so her robe falls back from hers, giving him a glimpse at her body underneath the knot around her middle. “She’s great, but I’ve got something worthy of competing too.” The best gift ever? That cat's cute, but she isn't Clarke.

His interest definitely looks piqued, but concern makes a little dip appear between his brows. “Not here where she can see.”

A bark of laughter burst from her chest, half-heartedly punching him in the shoulder as she looks up at him through her full lashes. All in all, everything worked out pretty great for her, and if he really wanted to, she could. Wait. Doesn’t mean she prefers it. “Are you going to make me wait until she’s of age?”

He kisses her quick, warm fingers slipping under the satin of her rob to caress her side. “It would be poetic justice, wouldn’t it?” There’s another kiss to the corner of her mouth and then she finds herself holding her breath, waiting for him to say something. His face softens, brushing a strand of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “If you think I can wait any longer you really think too highly of my resolve.”

“Thank God,” she says, breathless, and for the first time tonight, maybe even since she’s met him, welcoming the throbbing pulse of want between her legs instead of cursing it, ignoring it with all of her sheer power of will until it goes away.

“Let me just get her settled into your room, okay?” He kisses her forehead as he pushes himself up from the couch, cupping her chin briefly between his thumb and forefinger with an affectionate look in his eyes that makes her shiver all over. Bellamy’s voice turns impossibly gentle then, even if she instinctively knows it’s not so much a request as it is a demand, “Go lay down on my bed for me, sweetheart.”

Clarke doesn’t even _want_ to roll her eyes. It’s that good being called ‘sweetheart’. Those old-timers were on to something. It’s doing multiple things for her right now. “Hurry or I’ll start without you,” she teases, dragging herself up into her feet. Her knees feel a little weak, but she manages. 

He shoots her an unfazed look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. When he turns, he’s cradling Nefeli to his chest, lovingly caressing her behind her ear. He’s so fucking hot, it hurts a little. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

This side of him, the one she hasn’t gotten before, hasn’t even ever allowed herself to wonder about, why would she ever want to miss out on it? It’s already one of her favorites of his. Her chest glows with a dangerous warmth, and she _knows_ she’s made the right decision. “I love you.”

He lets out a considerate hum. “Is this going to be a regular thing now?”

Quirking a brow, she clarifies, “Are you complaining?”

Bellamy beams at her, pausing to lean against the jamb of her door. “I love you.”

She can’t hold back a smile of her own as she pushes open the door to his room, humming victoriously. “That’s what I thought.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was written for The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative, find our carrd [here](http://www.t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co) to prompt, share or get involved!


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